


A Few Days of Enforced Relaxation

by TLvop



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:59:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TLvop/pseuds/TLvop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quatre is forced to take a vacation; thankfully, Trowa is willing to take it with him. A fluffy plotless fic set 15-ish years post-canon; third person but primarily Quatre perspective. May contain sparkles.</p><p>(G, but contains mild makeouts.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Few Days of Enforced Relaxation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lil_1337](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_1337/gifts).



> Thanks to my lovely beta genarti. Written for gwficexchange 2011. 
> 
> Some geography bears different names, with regards to there being 200+ years between now and GW-time.

The ocean is the sort of brilliant blue-green here in Cozumel that Quatre has only seen in paintings; he’s watched documentaries, of course, but even with the best camera equipment there’s something lost of the particular depth in the light. He’s glad Trowa’s still working, today, and won’t be taking off until tomorrow. It gives him a chance to sit in their floating hotel and plot their trip for the next few days -- snorkeling, Mayan ruins, reading, maybe sneaking in some e-mails. He has to plan now for the vacation now, as he tried to fit as much work as he could into the time before he started the mandatory vacation. Well, mandatory according to his CFO, who is also his older sister, in alliance with his general practitioner and, perhaps more alarmingly, his assistant Pelle – Quatre’d agreed to it exchange for being allowed to fit another conference into his yearly allotment. 

Also it gives him time to be charmed by the fact that the suite has porthole-shaped windows before Trowa can show up and entirely fail to care. The rest of the decoration is primarily wood paneling, and doesn’t have much in the way of the cheap decorations that tend to embarrass Quatre for the owner’s sakes. No, it’s comfortably furnished but not trying over-hard. He really, really likes the windows, though.

Quatre finishes an outline of what their trip could look like (he doubts Trowa will have any changes to suggest, but it is polite not to assume). He unpacks his clothes and changes into a linen shirt, slipping his phone into the pocket, in order to go to the island and get the feel of the area by Armistice Bay (which the hotel floated in the sanctuary of) before sundown. He’d rented a pair of solarskis for the length of the trip, already docked outside on their porch (the door was fingerpad protected and opened into their main room, not the bedroom; it still made Quatre quietly nervous), but there was a shuttle to take residents from the hotel to the island when they didn’t have a pressing reason to get their clothing wet. 

\--

The shuttle boat is old, but well-cared for, with the sort of gentle use and careful maintenance that is the only thing which links antique furniture and mobile suits in Quatre’s mind.

There aren’t enough passengers for him to strike up an easy conversation; only a family at the end of the boat. So, instead, he sits near the front, letting the crisp wind from the open window blow in the face. He’s still taking in the foreign smells for brine and heavy wood polish. The noises are somewhat strange to colony-ears, too – though the seagulls have mostly ceased their calls by this time of the day, the quiet whirr of the engine is utterly different from a space shuttle, or even the silent efficiency of a car, and the water lapping against the sides of the boat an unknown sound as well. The cheerful conversation of the family on the other side of the boat, however, with its three young school aged children, sounds infinitely familiar in comparison. 

Many of his nieces and nephews have never seen the sea. He takes a moment to remove his day planner and make a note into it for the future.

As he finishes the note, the shuttle rocks to a stop by the dock of south Armistice Beach. Quatre tilts a thank-you with his head to the captain before following the family out onto the rough wood. 

The first hour he spends exploring the beach front, ducking around groups of people enjoying themselves on the beach. Most people visit Cozumel for its culture, its history, or its ocean diversity instead of for its beaches, but almost no one who spends their life land- (or space-) locked can help but spend at least a few hours chasing the ocean, given the chance.

The sun is closer to the horizon than Quatre expected but he is close to the equator – the length of day differs so wildly in the ever-variable Earth. 

As it is, he is getting hungry, so he ducks into a restaurant by the beach – it’s fairly quiet, but obviously tourist friendly. The quantity of sunburns, bright shirts, and college-aged people (with older people scattered throughout) attest to that. The loudness of the decorations helps as well. 

He walks up to the order location, taking in the seating arrangements –long benches, shared, though most parties are giving each other ample space. He smiles, and glances back to the menu.

After a brief inspection signifies nothing about the slaughtering practices (though they buy from free range farms), neither kosher nor halal, Quatre orders a vegetarian salad and soup combination instead. He takes his bright red number stand and a glass of iced tea, with a self-amused dignity, to the dining area. 

There’s a woman who’s sitting mostly alone near the corner of the area. Her back is facing the room as she read a book, but the space across from her gives a good view of the room. Then he catches sight of the title of her book, and nearly laughs – The Life of the Mouse, or La Vie de la Souris in the original French, a book he rereads nearly every year. 

He walks over, and stops a yard out from the table, body language open and only slightly angled towards her. “You have good taste in books,” he says, tilting his head to catch her attention, cheerful. She glances up, startled, and smiles. After a brief moment it seems she’s not quite adjusted back to social graces from reading, so he adds: “At least, I enjoy it, so I’m likely biased. Would I disturb you if I sit?”

“Oh, no!” she exclaims, moving her plate slightly to make room. “Go ahead. It’s for a class, but the summer quarter doesn’t start until July, so—” 

Quatre sits, glancing up amiably. “What are you studying?”

“Systems Analysis and Design,” she says with a half-laugh. “The literature’s just for fun and credit hours. You’ve read this?”

“In the French,” Quatre admits, smiling, “it’s one of my favorites.”

The woman leans in, dark hair slipping out from behind her ear. “I’ve only gotten halfway through Riddles, so no surprises, yeah?”

Quatre laughs, startled but sincere.

Her name is Martina, and she’s from L2, but she’s studying in Mexico City, where her extended family lives. She’s in Cozumel to learn how to dive with a group of her friends, but due to undefined “drama” she’s abandoned them for the evening to read and talk to strangers.

Quatre’s charmed; even with the attempts he, Relena, and several other politicians have made to encourage inter-colony and colony-Earth Sphere studying, it’s still only a small percentage of the population that takes advantage of the programs. 

“Why are you visiting?” She asks, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Diving, too?”

“Ah,” Quatre hesitates, “—maybe? Mostly I’m here because I was at a conference nearby, and my boyfriend’s working close to here, so we thought we’d take advantage of being in the same country for a few days. I think snorkeling’s more likely.”

She deflates slightly, barely visible, at the mention of a boyfriend; Quatre feels a brief pang of regret at having perhaps accidently flirted, but he doesn’t dwell on it because she’s still very cheerful. 

They don’t talk for much longer— when does he come? (Tomorrow, late morning) How long have you been dating? (Ten years, give or take a few months; since their early twenties) and then a segue-less entry back into the French literature she’s been studying and Quatre has long enjoyed (or disliked, but that makes for conversation as well). 

When Quatre leaves the restaurant in order to catch the shuttle with a group of other passengers, he’s pretty pleased. He doesn’t do more than strike up a quick conversation about local restaurants with a fellow carrying luggage, before he’s back on the hotel and walking the path to their room. He lingers awhile on the walkway closest to theirs, to watch the moon shine across the sea; further towards the center of the collection of suites he can hear the beginnings of quiet laughter and conversation around the fire pit. He considers, briefly, joining in, before deciding that that is a social occasion he’d rather not plunge into on his own.

It doesn’t exactly feel lonely, falling asleep alone on the bed, underneath the warm comforter. But as Quatre sets his watch (six am, so he can finish planning things out before Trowa arrives) and lays it on the bedside table, he is reminded of how much he prefers it when Trowa can sleep there with him. It’s all right, he’ll see him tomorrow, and it’s only been three weeks since they last had a chance to spend some time together – but Quatre still misses him, sometimes. He drifts to sleep, arms curled around a pillow in his boyfriend’s stead.

\--

Quatre gets to the airport early, and sets up in the lounge to wait for Trowa. He starts to read one of the industry magazines he’d downloaded the night before; it’s about power conversion issues, a vast difference from the biosphere conference he’d been attending. That had focused on recent bio-adaptations to artificial- and low- gravity environments. They’re both fascinating topics, but after a conference it’s always refreshing to read something unrelated to what was discussed.

He’s finishing up the issue and moving towards the security gate at the same time as Trowa is in line, visible behind the handful of people in front of him. He’s waiting to have his ID briefly verified in the local transport line, as he’s only come in from the Yucatan peninsula. It only takes Trowa about five minutes to make it through the line, and Quatre slips his reader into his waistcoat pocket as Trowa walks out and joins him by the far wall.

Quatre tucks his hands into his pants pockets, pleased. “Hello,” he says, cheerfully, leaning in very slightly. 

Trowa’s expression is fond. “Hey,” he says, passing over his laptop case when Quatre offers hand.

“Did your flight go well?” Quatre asks as they walk out of the airport terminal.

“It was delayed,” Trowa offers, with the quiet deadpan amusement that means he knows he’s telling Quatre something entirely accurate (and fitting the question) that Quatre already knows. 

Quatre laughs, quiet but sincere, touching Trowa’s elbow lightly with his free hand. 

The hotel shuttle from the airport to the dock (and the next from the dock to the hotel) is about half-full; enough people that they just sit quietly together during the trip, Trowa’s shoulder pressed lightly against Quatre’s in gentle greeting. When they’re on the water, Quatre watches Trowa’s expression as he in turn watches the sea.

“It’s beautiful,” Quatre says to him.

Trowa turns his gaze slightly to Quatre, and he returns the smile with his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees.

They’re the last people off the boat, and they have to dawdle for a moment once they’re off to let the majority of the people move on towards the registration desk before they can swing right and make their way into the open air pathway.

The ocean here is calm, protected from the occasional harsh winds Cozumel faces by walls and engineering. It had been turned into a safe harbor in the past century; originally for the safety of the navies, before it was reclaimed by the tourist industry which had always held sway on the island. The late morning sun shines through the glass ceiling, which shades as the light becomes more intense during the day. Quatre knows that walls are built into the occasional posts, in case of bad weather, but he’s glad that they are not in use normally.

Trowa is watching every branching of the walkway. Someone without the knowledge of many years would see him as merely relaxed, and only mildly curious, but Quatre knows that Trowa is comparing them to the map Quatre’d sent him last week, and forming his own map in his head. They’ll go exploring soon, so that Trowa can have a full mental map; Quatre would also appreciate seeing the hotel again during the day—very different from the late afternoon light in which he’d explored it previously. 

But Quatre knows Trowa won’t need to explore immediately, and he grins slightly to himself, pressing a kiss down against Trowa’s shoulder (his duffle is on the other) as he unlocks their door. Trowa slants him an interested look, undercut slightly by fond amusement. They enter the suite, and Quatre gives an abbreviated tour of it: kitchenette, living room, dock, restroom, bedroom.

Trowa touches Quatre’s elbow as he straightens from setting the laptop case down on the table in the hotel bedroom, and draws him into a long greeting kiss. Quatre’s hands end up with one at the nape of Trowa’s neck, the other resting against his stomach. Trowa’s hands lie gently on Quatre’s hips.

When they draw back, Quatre rests his head lightly against Trowa’s for awhile. Trowa adjusts his hands, moving them into an almost supporting position.

Quatre breathes out a quiet almost laugh. “Maybe I should show you the rest of the hotel,” he admits, reluctant. 

“Maybe you should,” Trowa echoes, with a smile at the corner of his eyes, relaxed, but he doesn’t move except to tilt his head in slightly. Quatre kisses him again. 

\--

They go exploring again around noon, after having some quick sandwiches from the groceries Quatre (well, his assistant Pelle) had requested be stocked before he checked in. Quatre is a little disappointed that Pelle avoided stocking anything that could be prepared in the microwave, but not terribly surprised. He suspects Pelle might disapprove of his tendency to default when pressed for time (which translates: always) to microwaveable handheld foods.

The sprawling hotel is somewhat difficult to map coherently, though there are cheerful colored signs here and there that help. He and Trowa stroll at a relaxed pace, intermittently discussing the potential improvements in biosphere resources in the colonies, especially with regards to L3 and L5 renovations. L4 was made to support plant-life, and sustained, where L5 was all but abandoned by those who could maintain it, and L3 was never properly (in Quatre’s biased opinion) constructed at all. L1 and L2 have their own unique problems, as the first colonies to be created, and being originally constructed with scientists in mind – but the Winner Corporation has not been contracted to help either of them, and Quatre mostly trusts those in charge of seeing changes are made there. 

It’s hard to think about the dangers of biosphere maintenance in space, with near-translucence of the ocean and the forms of fish, dark smudges in the near distance, swimming in it. There is something beautiful about creatures perfectly adapted to their home gravity, persisting in it.

Trowa’s watching a group of teenagers — well, probably college students— across the way from them, so Quatre turns to watch as well. The small gathering is standing some 30 feet distant on the other main docking point of this rest place on the throughway, circular and covered in sun chairs. They’re laughing, and flicking water at each other; a girl — woman — is already in the ocean, elbows resting on the dock, and she snags the ankles of one of the – men, managing to half-drag him towards her, though she’s too low to have the proper leverage to dip him in. Thankfully for her, another one of their friends leans into him while he’s off balance, and he tips over into the water, completely surprised.

Quatre finds himself laughing with the others, and he glances back to Trowa. Trowa returns the glance, as if to say an amused oh? and Quatre quickly moves to tip him in as well. His movement is far more practiced than those they’d seen, and Trowa hits the water like someone who knows how to fall, but it’s only long knowledge of his boyfriend (and the things the universe lets him know without seeing) that makes it very clear that Trowa knew exactly what was coming. If he hadn’t, Quatre knows he would’ve found a way to slip out of the maneuver.

Trowa re-surfaces, hair and skin wet, pushing himself back up onto the deck. His soaked clothes cling to him in a way that makes Quatre briefly mentally incoherent. 

“It’s a good temperature,” Trowa says, but he’s smiling a half-smile that lets Quatre know that Trowa’s not oblivious to what’s going on.

“Uh,” Quatre tries to sound intelligent. Thankfully after ten years it’s far less awkward to be aware of how attractive everything about Trowa is than it was when they first started dating. “That’s good.” 

Quatre makes a mental note to wear clothes he doesn’t mind getting wet, for the next time he pushes Trowa in. 

\--

They chase each other around most of the next afternoon on their solarskis, having a picnic on one of the more secluded parts of the beach. By the time night falls they’re back at the small porch outside their suite.

Quatre watches as Trowa finishes tying his solarski to the landing, feeling the faint prickling on his skin that lets him know he’s probably managed to burn despite the re-applications of sunscreen. It’s okay; he kind of expected it when coming on this trip. It’s too dark to see the state of his skin in any detail, though; it’s too dark to see anything further than a couple feet away in much detail at all. 

When Trowa finishes and moves to go towards the door, Quatre puts his hand against Trowa’s abdomen, and steps in front of him to stop him. Trowa glances up the half-inch or so, eyebrows slightly raised in amused questioning.

“Hi,” Quatre says, quietly, leaning in. 

Before he can realize what Trowa’s about to do, from the quick flare of amusement, his boyfriend snags his arm, twisting him sideways as he falls back easily into the open ocean, taking Quatre with him. Quatre just has the time to catch his breath before he hits the water, but when he surfaces he’s laughing. 

He feels Trowa’s hands slide around his waist, on the bare skin above his swim pants, underneath his t-shirt, and Trowa lays a kiss to the back of his neck. Quatre shivers even in the warmth, though Trowa’s added “Hi,” makes him laugh again. He turns and pushes Trowa back against the smooth side of the dock, grabbing a handrail to keep steady in the water as they kiss again in the dark. 

\--

They dry out by the fireplace in their suite. It’s electric, but it lets out enough warmth that Quatre finds it very cozy to curl by with a cup of decaf coffee, Trowa’s hand tracing lazy ever-slowing circles on his skin. He knows he’s wasting a lot of time, taking a vacation like this; but they’ve planned to go snorkeling tomorrow and no matter how impractical it is Quatre can’t begrudge himself a few days to remind himself about how beautiful Earth is. He especially can’t begrudge it when can share the beauty of Earth with Trowa, who understands.


End file.
